


All to Ashes

by darklittlestories



Category: Original Work
Genre: (not graphic), Character Death, Childbirth, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Horror, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 04:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5115638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darklittlestories/pseuds/darklittlestories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was rather a small tree for an ash, though it was old. It was as if something had stunted the tree's growth, yet it made a weak effort to live. The trunk leaned to one side, and even at high summer it produced only a paltry few leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All to Ashes

The grounds outside the large old house would be quiet at this hour, but this night the peace was shattered by the screaming and shouting of a mother laboring to birth a child.

After many hours, the infant child’s cries rang out sharp and plaintive, and a harmony of laughter joined the sound—relief and joy. The mother laughed through her tears, and the babe’s father laughed his joy in his resonant, booming voice.  

The infant’s twin sisters, who had been shooed away from the bedroom, jumped and danced and giggled with excitement.

The  _maison_  was a great, ancient shambles of a place, where the wind found its way in through abundant cracks and paint peeled up like a snake shedding its papery skin, but that night it was alight with warmth and contentment.

It did not last.

 

* * *

The babe was born screaming, and she did not stop for three nights. The days too, were filled with her shrieking. But as all parents know, when the cries of a troubled child break the promise of night's silence it is a deeper burden by far than those same wails in the light of day.

For the parents of an infant, patience is a virtue that flees with the dusk.

* * *

The child's mother and father floundered; for the twins had been born with relative ease and each with cheery dispositions. They were such darlings; they had named Margaux for 'pearl', and her younger twin (by seven minutes) Méline for 'honey'.

On the the second night, the squalling babe kept her sisters awake until the moon rose up to the top of the arched window in the nursery. The twins had long ago pushed their beds together to rest with the headboards facing the center of the room so that they could trace the movement of the stars and moon through the window’s thick glass.

The uneven surface made the twinkling and glowing bodies wobble and dance, and the girls often fell asleep holding hands and watching the sky. To enhance the dancing motion of the lights in the sky, they would blink one eye and then the next. In this way they lay still and cozy beneath their soft bedding and made the heavens dance for them.

As Mama's belly had grown rounder and rounder like the moon, they'd become excited to share their secret dancing sky with their new little baby.

They knew that Mama and Papa had made the baby and that Mama would hold the new child to her breast for feeding, but they had thought stubbornly of the baby as theirs.

They'd known the child would be a girl with the matter-of-fact certainty of children and had been giddy that soon they would have a third sister. Three was good. Three sisters felt complete and right and proper.

* * *

On the third night, Méline sighed dramatically and climbed out of bed. She crept toward their parents’ room with Margaux trailing her a few paces back.

The twins were five years old. Méline was the braver and more precocious of the two. She was listening at the door to her parents' suite with a drinking glass against the oak. When she heard Mother's voice thick with tears, she gestured to Margaux. Margaux knelt down and peered through the keyhole while Méline continued to listen. Méline heard Mama cry as she lamented that her milk would not flow.

Margaux saw fat tears fall slowly from Mama's eyes and trace paths down her cheeks. Margaux worried her mother’s cheeks were too pale.

Papa sat by the bed facing Mama and holding her hand in one of his as he gently stroked the baby’s head with the other. Nothing calmed the tiny girl or her mother, so the twins decided to take action.

* * *

The girls knew every inch of the old, creaking house and their escape was easy. Méline grabbed a lantern but waited to light it. They stepped lightly down the stairs, avoiding by rote habit each spot that would groan or squeak. They eased open the kitchen door—the front door made a heavy thud when it closed—and made their way across their land toward the road. This, they could do in total darkness, but the waning moon lit the pebbled path. It threw the Sad Tree into severe shadows, and made it seem quite scary rather than just sad.

Neither of the twins had explicitly named the Sad Tree; it was just obvious that was what the poor thing was called. It was rather a small tree for an ash, though it was old. It was as if something had stunted the tree's growth, yet it made a weak effort to live. The trunk leaned to one side, and even at high summer it produced only a paltry few leaves.

But here in the biting chill of the autumn night, the leafless Sad Tree was  _un bête squelettique_ _,_  a malevolent creature of black bones against the deep grey-blue sky.

Tonight the branches looked far too much like grasping fingers, so the girls scurried quickly out of the yard and onto the road proper.

* * *

The midwife’s cottage was not far, and soon the twins were inside with mugs of herb tea warming their hands. The woman had been awake, reading by a table covered with many candles and a surface bumpy with dripped wax.

Méline, of course, spoke up. “Mademoiselle Gigi, Mama isn’t making milk for the baby and she cries so much! She’s really worried and the baby cries, too. She cries all the time, all night long, and even Papa doesn’t know what to do! Will you help us? Can you help Mama to make milk?”

Margaux added quietly, “Mama is very pale, too. She looks ill, Mademoiselle.”

The midwife wrapped a shawl over her shoulders, and gave the twins a blanket to share after scolding them fondly about neglecting to wear cloaks in the crisp-cool night. “Allons-y, mes chéries. We will look after Madam Chantal and the baby. Has she a name yet?”

“No,” Méline said. “Everyone has been crying too much to think of a name.  _I_  think she should be named Tristesse, for she has made everyone so sad.”

“ _Ce n'est pas bien!_  That’s a bad name,” Margaux whispered urgently. She had a strong feeling that names were powerful, and she disliked that Méline had even spoken a melancholy name like that at all.

Gigi laughed at the twins, but they knew it was the laugh grown-ups make when they don’t really feel happy but they want children to believe everything is well.

* * *

The walk home was quick and urgent, and the twins led Mademoiselle Gigi to the unlocked side door to the kitchen. They ran ahead of her and bounded up the stairs, heedless now of the noise, and presented the midwife to Mama and Papa. They did not scold their girls for running off in the dark, for they were quite relieved to see Gigi and were hopeful she might help.

In their hurry, neither of the girls noticed a leaf, silvery in the scant moonlight, clinging onto a limb of the Sad Tree. 

* * *

For a week, Mama drank the medicine the midwife gave her. The baby drank goat’s milk but also nursed at Mama’s breasts all the time. Mama didn’t even wear a blouse anymore, because the midwife said the baby should feel Mama’s skin and it would help.

The twins giggled at seeing Mama’s big breasts out, and Mama tried to laugh too, but she was very tired from feeding the baby all day and all night. But she told the girls it was working; she was making more milk every day. They knew it was true because sometimes when the baby suckled one breast, the other one leaked a little bit.

Also the baby wasn’t screaming anymore and everyone but Mama was happy.

Papa brought a tray of food to Mama and smiled at “all of his beautiful girls.” He said he thought it was high time the newest beauty was given a name. Mama agreed but shrugged. Méline suggested silly names (but did not say Tristesse) and Papa laughed and offered boring names that the twins disliked.

Mama even groaned, “Ange, that’s terrible. We will not name her Agnes. Grand-mère hated her name.”

Méline added, “Arrière grand-mère hated  _everything_.”

Margaux hid a giggle in a fake gasp at her twin’s ill manners, and even Papa coughed and Margaux knew he was hiding amusement, too. Mama chastised Méline, but Margaux saw a strange look in her mother’s eyes. As if she were frightened to speak of her Grand-mère.

Then Margaux looked at her mother’s pale, pale skin and said, “I think we should name her after lilies. We should call her ‘Lilou’.”

Everyone agreed it was a lovely name and they spent a lovely evening handing tiny Lilou around—the twins held her oh so carefully, as if she were made of glass—and cooing at her and snuggling each other.

* * *

 

Lilou grew stronger and healthier. After her pink, slightly furry baby-skin became smooth, she too was fair as a lily, though she had rose in her cheeks. She was a sweet baby and the twins looked after her often. They took her to Mama when she made her hungry face but otherwise they played with her and told her stories and showed her the stars and moon from the window.

Méline went into the attic and dragged the best of the twins’ old cribs down the steep stairs. Together, they pushed very hard to separate their beds and set Lilou’s crib between them. She slept through the night very young, Papa said. He told his older girls he was very proud of them. And he told them Mama would feel better soon but of course they knew he was lying.

Mama had always been ill. It wasn’t a kind of sickness the girls could explain, and their father never spoke about it, except to mention that she was tired today or “was not feeling herself.” But the girls had always thought that was untrue. How could one not feel like herself more than half of the time?

Because then she wouldn’t _be_ herself and of course she was.

And so knowing Mama would be sick for a while they simply helped with the baby. They didn’t give it a thought except to notice that Papa was worried much more than usual.

**Author's Note:**

> So for Halloween, I wanted to write a horror story based on a fairy tale, because I LIVE for the dark fairy story. This is inspired by Aschenputtel, German/Brothers Grimm version of Cinderella, but a bit by the French version and those are very much just starting points.
> 
> I'd wanted to get much, much more posted but 'Halloweek' nearly killed me with procrastinated costuming and pain issues. But I give you a taste of what's to come:D 
> 
> Happy Halloween, loves!  
> xx


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